There Are Moments Like This

Cross-legged and eating rice, a single grain drops upon my lap. I acknowledge the morning obstacle and, slow and intentional, rescue the fallen god from certain peril.
monkey and rice
Quiet and consumed with understanding the incident, I move on to the miso soup, careful to stir before drinking.

For a moment my thoughts stray from the fallen and rescued god and drift to the smooth blend of miso, seaweed, tofu, and green onions. I continue stirring until the seaweed is only a phantom in the soup appearing in a brief rhythmic scene as the mix settles. I miss the opportunity to drink the perfect blend as I watched the tofu chase the green onions dodging the phantom seaweed.

I stir again. Drink. Am quiet.

I look up to see Momoko who always appears more comfortable sitting on the floor for breakfast. She’s the one who never allows me to leave a single grain of rice on a plate or in my bowl. Her mother taught her each grain is a small god with a purpose the same as ourselves.

I consider, again, the morning’s rescue mission and my ability to perform the extraction with fully extended chopsticks. Unfettered and calm, I ingested the god with dignity. For some silly reason, this amuses me to no end and I chuckle to myself.

There is nothing better than an uncontrolled laugh to a secret joke or realization. It usually procures another to laugh as well.

In this case, Momoko joins me out of sheer curiosity elevating from a smile, to a giggle, to a head shake with eyes closed, then eyes opened to the left, then right, and to a pinnacle where eyes connect and where, for a brief instant, there is no future, no self, no anxiety, no pressure, no world but the one existing between two innocent humans caught being happy with no idea or concern why.

The moment leaves faster than it arrived and we are left in a comfortable silence digesting our gods and drinking instant coffee.

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Sensai

Sensai

An old church choir finds me in a damp alley hiding from the concrete everywhere of Tokyo. For the first time in three hours my anxieties subside.

For a small second I do not breathe, do not move, am only a set of ears and a heart hung amongst a clean,
sharp C harmony.

An ambulance siren fades into the choir. Overtakes it. Fades out and into the sound of an airplane pulsating a quiet roar with the wind. As the plane clears, I notice the church choir has stopped. Chairs shift and a loud voice, made foreign by the thick pane glass, shuffles the holy group back into the world.

An old lady emerges with a dark blue dress garnished with white lace ruffled about her hands and neck. She is wearing pearls. Today is a Friday. She walks slowly toward me, eyes locked on her simple black shoes. I notice her smile. Eighty years of practice have perfected each muscle. She moves closer with a small handbag with a thin bamboo handle. The bag is quiet upon her arm.

She finally sees me and allows her smile to widen and her head to bow. A welcoming. She, unlike myself, is not worried about why I am here, instead she accepts that I am and continues past me. I quickly ask her in Japanese how she is feeling today, “genki desu ka?” And she, more quiet, stretching her smile to accommodate language, says yes. “Hai,” she whispers, and continues east through the alley.